


With the Garments of Her Gladness

by ineptshieldmaid



Series: Of Heroes and Queens [9]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Prince Caspian - C. S. Lewis
Genre: F/M, The Problem of Susan, religious angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-10
Updated: 2009-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'That's the first thing you need to learn about Narnia,' she went on, keeping her voice low for fear that it would wobble and give way. 'It's <i>not about you</i>. You can rule her and love her and serve her, but you can't own her or keep her, because she's never really yours.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the Garments of Her Gladness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxlucyferxx](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=xxlucyferxx).



> Beta'd by tea_fiend, agenttrojie, and anachronisma. Written as a (belated) birthday gift for xxlucyferxx.
> 
> I have chosen not to use archive warnings for much of my Narnia fic, because the ages and maturity levels of characters in Narnia don't map neatly onto our concepts of "underage" and "of age". You can find an explanation of my policy re: age of consent in fiction [here](http://ineptshieldmaid.dreamwidth.org/189551.html).
> 
> Please note: this is a Problem of Susan fic, although it is set in the Prince Caspian era. It is deeply influenced by my de-conversion experience and general Religious Angst (TM), and may be distressing for those who also have Religious Angst (TM). Or it might be cathartic! Who knows.
> 
> This story is also heavily loaded with medieval references. See the end-notes for full credit and explanations.

'Is it a Romp, Aslan?' You let yourself be pulled into the midst of the mad dance, and this part at least is familiar. Not comfortable, not by far. Bacchus has you by the hand, and then you are spinning, and there are arms about your waist and leafy, twiggy hair brushing your shoulders, a dryad face inches from your own. Her breath is sweet as berries, at once too close and half a lifetime apart. Someone - Bacchus, again - takes you by the shoulder and propels you forward, crying for you to dance. His Maenads are clapping out a wild rhythm, and you recognise the challenge in Bacchus' eyes. Something in you longs to answer: something old and fierce, something you found a thousand years ago and have not forgotten entirely.

And so you dance, the ring of Maenads closing in around you. You are unsure, at first - in England you know only dances with steps laid out for you to follow. Bacchus matches his own wild dance to your tempo, and exultance rises as your feet fly faster, your body swings more loosely, and the space between he and you is but music and air. Your mail shirt is heavy on your shoulders, and fear curls up beneath it, pressing down on your chest until you can breathe only shallowly. When Silenus breaks into your circle, his donkey braying and Aslan leaping after, the Maenads scatter and the insistent beat of their clapping shifts to something lighter, less terrifying and at the same time... less. Lucy tumbles from Aslan's back and into your arms, and then you are spinning around, sisters and queens, laughing together like little children.

* * *

When Susan first saw King Caspian, he was leaning rather heavily on Edmund, the two of them standing a little apart as the Narnian captains collected up the Telmarine army's weapons. They were both running with sweat and blood, blond hair and dark plastered to their foreheads, and Susan thought for a heartbeat that Caspian were Peter. Bile rose in the back of her throat, although she had seen her brothers this way too many times before. She had begun to think that she would never see them so again.

The Talking Beasts surrounded Aslan, and Susan and Lucy with him, each with her hand still wrapped in his mane. They were buffeted about, Lucy laughing and kissing everyone within reach. Susan touched the head of a badger, in a sort of benediction, before she saw a great centaur looming over her. She learned later that his name was Glenstorm, but for now, she smiled her thanks up at him and let him lift her bodily over the mass of animals and set her on firm ground beyond.

Edmund came to stand beside her, and she realised that it had not been Peter she saw with him earlier, but Caspian, for Peter was now leading Caspian by the hand, clearing a path to stand before the Lion.

Edmund touched her shoulder gently.

'All right, Su?'

'You smell,' she offered back, with a shadow of a smile.

Edmund gave her a rare hug, one-armed. 'You smell like Lion,' he said, and rested his head on her shoulder for a moment.

'Welcome, Prince,' Aslan's voice rolled through the clearing. 'Do you feel yourself sufficient to take up the Kingship of Narnia?'

Caspian's shoulders dropped visibly. 'I - I don't think I do, Sir,' he said. 'I'm just a kid.' And he was, too, she realised, for all that he looked like Peter. He was _young_, younger than Peter, younger even than Peter had been when they took their thrones (and she found it hard to think of Peter as a boy at all, although by all accounts he was only a little over a year older now than he had been then).

* * *

The afternoon and evening disappeared in celebrating and feasting. Bacchus and his Maenads whirled around the clearing, faster and faster, and where their feet fell there sprang up a feast, the sort one could only _dream_ of in England during the war. Lucy sprawled on her stomach, surrounded by Talking Beasts, her face dripping with juice as Reepicheep and his Mice trotted back and forth to bring her the best fruits as they sprang from the ground. Peter was over on the far side of the glade, waving a big wooden goblet around and recounting some obviously entertaining tale to a gaggle of giggling dryads. The rest of the tree folk were clustered around the Moles, who were digging up earth for their supper. The soil by Beruna ought by rights to have been a rocky alluvium, courtesy of the nearby river - or at least it had been when Lucy had her manor there, and Susan had worked with her in the garden on long summer evenings. By the time the meal was done, and the tree folk were standing about mocking Edmund gently in their low swishy voices (he had tried the first course of their meal, and liked it not at all), the Moles had dug a trench a hundred feet long, and only a few feet wide, and from this one entrenchment they had brought forth a staggering array of soils, from dark loam to light sand. Susan had watched in awe, and when unease curled in her belly, she pushed it away: had not Aslan done stranger things in the Narnia of their day?

One of the Red Dwarfs - not Trumpkin, but perhaps a cousin of his - came past bearing a tray (and where had he found a tray?) of vegetable pasties. Susan took one, and Glenstorm, beside her, took two.

'One for each hand,' he told her solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eye, and in that moment her imposing new friend reminded Susan so much of her father that she did not know whether to laugh or cry. She settled for wrapping both hands around her pasty and biting into it slowly, savouring the rich flavour which only Narnian vegetables truly have.

'Better than school dinners, by far,' she told Glenstorm, between bites. The centaur furrowed his brow.

'Does Your Majesty attend school?' he rumbled.

'Of course.' Susan plucked a slice of bacon from a passing platter, and then had to juggle it between her fingers until someone passed her a plate and fork from somewhere. 'We all do, at home. In England,' she qualified, suddenly unsure. 'Where we are when we're not here.'

Glenstorm looked displeased. 'I've heard about schools,' he said. 'The Telmarines send their children to school. All due respect, Majesty -' he dipped his head to Caspian, who had appeared beside them with his hands full of grapes - 'but I do not think they are good places.'

Caspian looked wistful. 'I wish I had gone to school,' he said, holding out the fruit to both Glenstorm and Susan. 'I should have liked to know more of other children, I think.'

Glenstorm rumbled his disapproval again. 'Better to learn from one wise man, such as your tutor, Majesty, than to be taught lies alongside many others.'

Somehow, as the music died down and the food was almost eaten up, Susan found herself leaning back against a tree trunk with Caspian beside her. On the near side of the fire, Lucy and Peter had fallen asleep with their arms about each other and Reepicheep lying across their feet. Bacchus' Maenads had spread themselves in a heap by the fire, but Bacchus himself was nowhere to be seen; the tree folk were all asleep now (the light sleep of contented trees, not the deep slumber of the last several centuries), and if Edmund was with them still, he could not be seen for all the branches and trunks on that side of the fire. Glenstorm and Dr Cornelius, not far off, had their heads bowed together and were talking at length about astronomy or alchemy or something equally dull. _And he doesn't like schools_, Susan thought, with a little shake of her head.

Caspian was resting his chin on his knees, and watching the fire instead of her.

'Glenstorm's right,' he said quietly. 'If I had been to school - with other children, with the sons of noblemen - we wouldn't be here now. If not for Dr Cornelius,' he swallowed, and then went on, 'I'd be dead now. But this war would never happened, and a lot of other people would still be alive.'

'They didn't die for you,' Susan said, and flinched, because her words sounded harsher than she had meant. Caspian turned his head a little, not so much that he was looking at her, but enough that she could tell he was listening. 'That's the first thing you need to learn about Narnia,' she went on, keeping her voice low for fear that it would wobble and give way. 'It's _not about you_. You can rule her and love her and serve her, but you can't own her or keep her, because she's never really yours.'

'Because I'm a Telmarine,' Caspian said, his voice flat. 'The Beasts accepted me as king,' he added, turning his head to look at her at last. There was a flash of anger in his eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw. '_Aslan_ accepted me.'

'Because you're a Man,' Susan said, and found she could not look him in the eye. 'Narnia, _this_ Narnia...' She waved her hand at the army sleeping in the clearing, from Glenstorm to their left to Lucy and Peter and the Talking Beasts by the fire, to the trees beyond and Aslan keeping his own counsel. 'This isn't about you. Maybe when you get back to your castle, when you're sitting on your father's throne, that might be about you. But this... this is about _Narnia_, and Narnia needs a king, which is all you are. Narnia will follow you, even love you, but never think for a moment that you own her.'

Caspian regarded her silently for a minute or so, and then nodded. 'Thank you, Your Majesty,' he said, in what Susan recognised instantly as his Court Voice. 'Your advice is appreciated.' She watched him from the corner of her eye, and he pretended to watch the fire, although she knew he was watching her. _Not just a kid_, she thought, and found herself pleased. Older than either Edmund or Lucy had been on their coronation day, and though younger in years, far less a child than she or Peter had been on that day. Of course - neither Finchley nor boarding school (and far less the Professor's house) could teach you as much of self-reliance and intrigue as a year in a hostile court, and Caspian had spent his whole life at court.

* * *

Susan woke shortly after dawn - the Talking Beasts were moving about, although trying their best to keep quiet out of respect. The first thing she saw was the sun on the leaves above her, but the second, as she rolled onto her side, was Caspian. He was sitting up a few feet away from her, and his face wrinkled in displeasure as he tried to comb knots out of his hair with his fingers. She blinked sleepily at him for a moment. He would have very nice hair, she reflected, if it wasn't looking like a bird's nest.

'You're very beautiful,' Caspian said, dreamily, and then looked horrified at himself. 'My lady! I - I don't mean... Not that you're not... I mean, I don't wish to offend you.' Susan had definitely received more eloquent compliments, even in England. It was probably because she was feeling tired and crumpled and very much in need of a hot bath that this particular compliment settled warm in her belly and had her lips twitching and threatening to give way to a most undignified grin.

'Here,' she said, fumbling around for her quiver. Caspian frowned at her in bemusement, but she didn't bother explaining. Explanations were for after breakfast. She snapped a catch and popped open a small compartment in the outside case of the quiver, and handed him a small bone comb. Caspian took it and held it gingerly between his fingers.

'Thank you,' he said, seriously, regarding the comb as if it were very precious.

'You comb your hair with it,' Susan told him.

'It'll get dirty!' Caspian held up a hank of his hair, which was, sure enough, crusted with dirt. Susan rolled her eyes and told him to shut up and comb his hair. _She_, at least, had the sense to plait her hair before sleeping on the ground.

* * *

Aslan was in command, for the moment, and sent messengers out over the country proclaiming Caspian to be King of the Narnians and the Telmarines, and giving orders that any Telmarines who did not wish to share their country with the true Narnians should present themselves to Aslan and the Kings at Beruna five days hence. Susan wondered when the formula had ceased to be 'Kings and Queens', but there was too much else going on to bother about that, and truth be told, she had not often felt less like a queen than she did today. Susan, of all the Pevensies, had never got the knack of feeling like a queen in mussed clothes and without a bath in sight (and she felt just the same in England, where she wasn't a queen at all).

Lucy, who never seemed to worry about her hair or her clothes, had gone off without even finishing her breakfast, following the badger Trufflehunter back to the How, where the most injured of Caspian's army had spent the night. They had taken with them Caspian's old nurse, the child Gwendolen, and the former schoolmistress. Susan and her brothers knew very well that Lucy's cordial could heal all of their injured in as little as an hour, and have them on their feet again, but when Caspian pointed out that they could not be sure of their reception at the hands of Miraz's court - and the castle would of course be guarded still - Peter's lips thinned, and he suggested that Lucy and some of the less warlike Beasts should take refuge in the How with the wounded, and join them at the castle the following day. Aslan, who certainly knew that Lucy could have the wounded walking again in a matter of hours, said nothing on the matter, and Susan felt a little better knowing that, should their march on the castle turn out badly, they would have a safe retreat waiting for them. Provided no one ransacked the How in their absence and cut down every one of Lucy's recently healed warriors, but Susan pushed that thought away. She knew why _she_ was being taken along with the army: to talk to women and flirt with men, to organise banquets (because somehow neither Peter nor Edmund had managed, in fifteen years, to organise a decent party on their own, and she had no higher hopes for Caspian) and listen in to gossip.

Susan rode at the head of the army, between Caspian and Peter. They had discovered many years ago that an army looks less like an army if it has a pretty woman in the vanguard. Pretty, well-dressed and gracious would be preferable, but for now, they would have to make do with pretty, crumpled, and out of sorts.

* * *

''Long live the King!' The shout went up from the city gates as soon as they came into view. 'Long live the King! Long live King Caspian!'

Peter shot Caspian a look of distinct irritation. 'What is going on here?' he demanded, just low enough that Caspian could catch his words. Edmund, on Caspian's far side, nudged his horse in closer to the others.

Caspian looked bemused. 'I... It looks like they're welcoming me. Us.'

'You,' Edmund corrected. 'The question is: why?'

* * *

King Miraz's standing among his so-called supporters had, apparently, taken a serious blow during Caspian's absence - or perhaps his uncle's power base had never been as monolithic as it seemed to the young prince. Exactly what had transpired was difficult to grasp at first (and Susan was not entirely sure that Lady Prunaprismia was telling the truth), but Lord Rocillian, Miraz's seneschal, had come to a bad end. There had been an attempt to marry Prunaprismia by force, apparently as soon as word came of King Miraz's death; and at the same time, or shortly after, there had been an attempt on the young Prince Tyrian's life, and the upshot of it all was that Prunaprismia had shot Rocillian through the heart when he came to her bed. With the aid of the Captain of the town Guard, who fortuitously appeared in the castle at the time, she had Rocillian's men imprisoned and his family placed under arrest awaiting execution, and so was in command of the castle when Aslan's proclamation had arrived that morning.

'And knowing your Majesty to be the true and rightful heir to the throne of Caspian the Conqueror -' here, Susan could sense Trumpkin and Glenstorm bristling behind her - 'I did resolve me to surrender the castle unto you, knowing that Your Majesty will be kind and most merciful to myself and to Your Majesty's own cousin, my son Tyrian.'

Caspian swallowed. Susan could see his eyes flicker from one side to the other, but he wisely kept himself from turning to Peter or Edmund for guidance.

'Your husband,' he said clearly, so that both the Telmarines and the Narnians gathered in the throne room could hear him, 'killed his brother and rightful sovereign, my father, King Caspian the Ninth. This much has been widely known in the court, though little spoken of; and furthermore, it was established in combat not one day past, by my noble cousin Peter, High King of the Narnians.' Susan did not fail to note the change in wording, and nor did the Beasts, shifting uneasily behind her.

'Furthermore,' Caspian went on, 'being placed as Lord Protector in my stead, your husband did conspire to assume the throne and to deprive me of the inheritance which by rights is mine. Do you deny these things, Prunaprismia?'

The lady held her head high. 'I do not, King Caspian, although I was not Miraz's wife at the time of which you speak, and had neither knowledge of nor complicity in his treason.'

'Is it not the law and custom of this kingdom that the wives and children of traitors shall share their fate, namely, execution?'

Prunaprismia blanched, but said only, 'I have known Your Majesty since you were a child, and I trust in your kindness towards your own kin.'

The silence hung heavy over the hall, and Susan watched Caspian carefully. He had schooled his face into impassivity, which was a good start. She remembered the first time _she_ had held a man's life in the balance, without one of her siblings there to share the judgement and the fault. It was one thing to know that men had died because of choices you did or did not make: died on battlefields and at sea, in famines and border raids, with great pomp and heroism and quiet ignobility. It was another to make these clear and irrevocable choices with a single life in front of you. She watched Caspian watch his aunt, and there it was, a sudden panic battering at her. She had made those decisions, made them publicly and privately, for fifteen years, and now she could not remember how. How many men, how many Beasts and other creatures, how many women and children, would be alive today if it were not for Queen Susan, if not for King Edmund and Queen Lucy and High King Peter?

_None_. The enormity of it hit her just as Aslan rumbled low in his throat, and took the floor between Caspian and his aunt. _None_. All those hard-fought battles and impossible choices, lives saved and lives damned... all for nothing, all crumbled and lost into dust and history.

'You and your son are safe, dear one,' Aslan told the former Queen, who sank to her knees and let him breathe on her. 'Hear me!' the Lion cried out, and the gathering - both Man and Beast - quailed before him. 'Neither man, woman nor Beast shall suffer in Narnia for another's crime!'

And that, Susan supposed, was that.

* * *

She found the former queen in a garden which Susan recognised at once. It was not at all like her own bower: hemmed in by heavy stone walls, its beds carefully laid out with roses and shrubs, but entirely devoid of trees; it had neither spring nor fountain, and its sanctity was protected by a heavy iron gate rather than the courteous privacy which Cair Paravel had granted its Queen. Despite all this difference, or perhaps because of it, Susan knew at once that this garden had been the Queen's retreat and refuge, that she had tended it with her own hands, that she had come here in joy and sorrow and pain and fear.

Now, she had come here with Aslan. Susan found the great Lion sprawled on his side, sunning himself in the afternoon warmth. She had the distinct impression that he would be purring if there had been no man or woman about to witness. Prunaprismia sat, her skirts spread about her and her son sleeping in her lap, in the space between the Lion's forepaws. She had pulled her hair out of its formal braids, and her eyes were red as though she had been crying.

'Susan,' Aslan rumbled, his big eyes barely opening. 'Come in, dear one.' The gate was open, but Susan nevertheless hesitated until Prunaprismia nodded for her to enter.

'What ails you, child?'

Susan slipped to her knees by Aslan's head - the old familiar gesture tugging at her heartstrings, so that she longed, not for the high golden past when they were all kings and queens and very much grown-up, but for the past which really was little more than a year ago, when Aslan had waited for all of them, even Edmund, who least deserved it. She and Lucy had wept over Aslan on the Stone Table, then, and there had been no question of who saw first, or who believed most.

'The banqueting hall must be rearranged, Sir,' she began, 'in order to best accommodate our army as well as our new allies.' Aslan blinked lazily at her. 'The castle servants won't listen to me,' she went on, all in a rush, 'and they say this is Caspian's castle and they won't have it turned inside out for a load of carnival beasts, and they keep asking if I'm Peter's wife, and making, making... lewd jokes about Caspian, and...' she trailed off, suddenly aware that she ought to be more than a match for a few dozen impertinent servants. 'I had hoped to seek Lady Prunaprismia's aid,' she finished, trying to sound dignified.

'Prunaprismia and I have much to talk of,' the Lion answered. Susan raised her eyes to meet Prunaprismia's, and realised that the woman was barely older than she herself was - older, that is, than Susan was counted in England (older than she had begun to count herself) but many years younger than Susan ought to have been in Narnia.

'Stay and talk with us,' Aslan urged. Prince Tyrian woke, blinking sleepily and then waving tiny fists at the golden Lion above him. A tiny baby, innocent of all wrongs, and yet as sure as chickens lay eggs, Susan knew that there lay the end of all Caspian had fought for, all they had won for him, everything they had left England again to restore.

'Banquets do not organise themselves,' she said sadly, and when she left, Prunaprismia did not follow her.

* * *

Susan folded her big Telmarine skirts around herself and perched on the edge of the dais, at the front of the banquet hall. She had left a long table set up there for Caspian, herself, and her siblings, but none of them had sat there all night. The feast, as the best Narnian feasts do, had spilled out of the hall, tumbled across the courtyard, and extended down into the town itself, where someone had arranged for roast meats and barrels of ale at the Crown's expense. Outside, beyond the wide-flung doors, the Talking Beasts had raised a bonfire, and she could see the familiar silhouettes of fauns and dryads, whirling and capering about it. A little closer in, Bacchus and his Maenads had dragged an assortment of Narnians and Telmarines into their mad dance: there was Peter's golden hair in the firelight; and yes, that _was_ the Captain of the town guard; and there, with his arms about two Maenads and his cape all askew, was that particularly supercilious butler who had commanded the brigade of servants making her life miserable.

Inside the hall, the Telmarine nobility had evidently resolved to go on, as far as they could, as if nothing much had changed. Minstrels had set up in one of the galleries; a group of young people, girls in stiff wide skirts and lads done up in silk and ruffles like so many English schoolgirls in their Sunday best, were taking Edmund through the steps of a complicated square dance. In clusters along the walls and around the tables, the older nobility were talking, jockeying with each other in a now-uncertain hierarchy. Buffet dining had been declared a charming innovation (although of _course_ one could not eat like that all time), the Pevensies and Caspian alike were lovely children, and didn't His Majesty look like his father? These circus animals were rather endearing, after all, and, it was murmured through the hall, if that great brute of a lion were to stay about, the Archenlanders would think twice about taking Narnia lightly.

Men, Susan reflected, were the same no matter where or when you went, and women doubly so.

'Will you dance?' Caspian had come up behind her. His formal garb, as splendidly ornate as her own dress, seemed to dwarf him. He smiled nervously, and Susan was both amused and flattered to note that he was fretting at the tassel on his doublet, twisting it anxiously in his fingers. She could hardly refuse.

The flock of young people gave way as they approached, making space in the set as a new tune struck up. To Susan's surprise, Caspian danced well and confidently: he dispensed with nerves and shy smiles as the dance struck up, tripping lightly through the steps while Susan struggled to mimic the other women in the set and fought against the heavy weight of her unaccustomed gown. Once, twice through the routine she went, missing steps and almost colliding with other people's dresses. On the third repetition, when the women dancing all spun back into the hands of their partners, she came back to Caspian beaming wildly, her feet suddenly in time and herself in harmony with the set. Oh, she _definitely_ did not get to dance enough in England. Caspian looked momentarily startled, as if a grinning Susan were not on his list of contingencies; and if the smile he gave back - at once mischievous and unsure, as if he thought they might be sharing a secret, but was not entirely certain - made her stomach flip over, well, she was already grinning and giddy as they spun.

* * *

'I think we missed the last dance.' Caspian hesitated for a moment, and then settled himself down beside her, their backs against a tree which had certainly not been there earlier in the day. Susan patted the trunk lazily, and thought she felt a sleepy stirring in the wood below her hand. She had the sudden mental image of the dryad curled up in the bole like a contented kitten, and hoped it was so.

'Bacchus is still dancing,' she said, but Caspian shook his head. He didn't have to elaborate: Bacchus and his girls were intimidating, if you were not used to them. _Even if you _were _used to them_, Susan added to herself. 'You're the King,' she said aloud, instead. 'He'll respect that.'

Caspian flushed. 'He certainly, er, respects King Edmund.' And then Susan had to laugh, her head tipping back against the tree trunk, because she'd forgotten _that_ particular detail of their past life.

'I liked your dancing,' she said, when her amusement faded. 'Although the style is a lot more elaborate than it was in our day.'

'I liked dancing with you.'

She turned her head and found Caspian watching her, his eyes wide. His uncertainty lent her surety, and she leaned across to brush her lips against his cheek. 'Tomorrow,' she said, following the touch of her lips with the tips of her fingers, 'remind me to teach you to waltz.'

* * *

Tomorrow brought its own problems, the first of which was that Reepicheep challenged one of the Telmarine noblemen to a duel. One of the Squirrels woke Susan, chittering with excitement, and cried that she must come quickly, Reepicheep was going to kill Squire Costes, come quickly, come quickly. Susan had neither the time nor the two maids necessary to don any of the Telmarine gowns which had been found for her, and her own dress had been speedily vanished by the laundry staff. It needed less than a moment's consideration to determine that, while Cair Paravel had not infrequently seen Queen Susan in her nightgown, Caspian's court would not be so kindly disposed. She flung the wardrobe doors open, and turned out the drawers, and discovered that this room had once been a man's, or rather, a boy's. She pulled on soft trousers which pulled in all the wrong places and yet had to be tightly belted at the waist, and dragged on one of the silly, heavy doublets hanging in the wardrobe - it turned out to be nearly as difficult to secure as the dresses, especially with only the aid of an agitated Squirrel.

By the time she made it to the castle forecourt, Reepicheep and his whole battalion of Mice were being forcibly restrained by an assortment of moles, badgers and dwarfs. Glenstorm and his sons were looming over Squire Costes and his fellows. A small crowd had gathered - Susan gave them only a quick glance, and then ignored them as they tittered at her ridiculous garb.

'My lady!' Reepicheep struggled against the two Red Dwarfs who held him. 'Release me, you craven eaters of dirt! My lady, fair Queen Susan, I beg your pardon. I would have avenged the insult at once, but these unchivalrous dwarfs prevented me!'

'I will not lower myself to contest with _vermin_,' the young fellow who must be Costes snapped.

'Funny,' Glenstorm rumbled, 'There's hundreds dead and captive at Beruna who didn't share your scruples.'

'Enough,' Susan commanded, and found herself suddenly pleased: she could still make her voice carry without shouting. 'Reepicheep. We will not have you causing disharmony in His Majesty's court. Explain yourself, Sir.'

Reepicheep's countenance settled into the most wounded expression a Mouse can bear, his ears twitching and his tail drooping. 'Believe you me, O fair Queen, I had no intent to cause disharmony. And yet what chivalrous knight could stand by when this cretinous Telmarine speaks such dishonour against your own person, my Queen?'

'Perhaps not a chivalrous knight, but a prudent one,' Susan informed the Mouse. Reepicheep looked, if possible, even more hurt.

'But your majesty! This impudent squire uttered slander most vile, upon your majesty's honour, your virtue...' he trailed off, apparently overcome with the horror of it all. Susan stared at him in confusion: on the one hand, there was a comfortable familiarity, which she did not entirely like, to the old ritual of contests and quarrels for her favour and in name of her honour (although it was unsettling to realise that she had done nothing to warrant it, not in this specific instance, and in fact not at all in this lifetime). On the other, such games had always been the province of Men - visitors and diplomats and traders and newcomers. Their native Narnian subjects had always been more concerned with the failure of any of the Kings and Queens to bring forth children than whether or not they had company in their beds at night (or behind the stables, or in the woods or on the beaches in broad daylight). She sighed, and indicated that Reepicheep's keepers should let him go.

'Oh, Mouse,' she said, and pried his rapier out of his paws, 'you have become more like Men than you can know.'

At this juncture, one of Squire Costes' friends decided it was his turn to stir the pot. 'See!' he cried, pointing, 'the Narnian whore will not deny the truth!'

'And is she not wearing His Majesty's trousers and doublet, showing her legs like a pantomime tart?'

Susan spun around, horrified to find herself blushing again. 'These clothes were in the room I was given!' she began to protest, falling silent as the Centaurs stepped back to make way for Peter, Edmund, and, trailing behind them, Caspian. All three were wearing rough breeches and had their sleeves rolled up to the shoulders.

'Insult my sister again, and you answer to _me_,' Peter said, pulling the unfortunate Costes (who was not blessed with great height) up onto his tiptoes by the collar.

'Suits you, Su,' Edmund declared, with a hint of a smirk at her outfit, and elbowed her in the ribs.

'You smell,' Susan informed him. 'Again.'

'Practice courts,' Edmund answered, while Peter released young Costes and glowered at the crowd until the better part of the gathering decided they had more important things to do, and slunk away.

'Why _are_ you wearing Caspian's clothes?' Peter turned back to Susan, one eyebrow raised.

'Your Majesty, I assure you,' Caspian spluttered, 'I have only the most noble respect for Queen Susan...'

The three Pevensies regarded him in surprise for a moment. 'Yes, very well,' Peter said, and left it at that. 'Susan?'

She proceeded to explain: the clothes, despite scurrilous rumour, were not Caspian's; she had been unable to don a Telmarine gown on her own, and had dressed herself in whatever was to hand.

'I suppose the clothes belong to some boy being held at Beruna now,' she finished. _Or dead_, she did not add, but the words hung in the air anyway.

Caspian, red to the ears, owned that the clothes were, in fact, his, and the room Susan slept in had not been the province of some unknown nobleman's son, but a lonesome prince.

'Ah.' Susan smoothed her hands down the sides of the quilted doublet. 'My apologies, Caspian. I shall change at once.'

'Do not trouble yourself on my account,' Caspian hastened to assure her. 'You are welcome to them, as long as you wish.' He bit his lip, and added, 'The colour becomes you, my lady.'

Once again, the three Pevensies stared at him.

'I prefer dresses,' Susan told him gently. 'They tend to fit better.' Turning to Peter, she added, 'I feel ridiculous.'

'And you look it,' her brother said, easily. 'How much do you wager that Lu balks at those big dresses, though?'

'Foregone conclusion,' Susan said. 'No bet. When do you suppose she'll be here?'

'Before sundown,' Edmund put in. 'We had a messenger bird an hour ago saying that they were leaving the How.'

'Excellent. Caspian?'

'Milady?'

'If I am to get dressed at all, I shall require the services of two maidservants for such time as I am resident here.' The Squirrel who had woken her, still waiting by Susan's side, almost jumped out of her skin in her eagerness to volunteer. 'Two maidservants _with opposable thumbs_,' Susan clarified. Many years afterwards, the Narnians would wonder why the Squirrels alone maintained that pride was Queen Susan's great fault, and that she preferred the company of Men to Beasts. Certainly, no other creatures in Narnia ever countenanced the idea, for, as you know, Squirrels are flighty and given to baseless gossip.

* * *

Dinner on the second evening was served as a banquet, again, to celebrate the arrival of Queen Lucy, Trufflehunter, and the remainder of the Narnian army. Caspian was a little worried about the castle's stores, but the Pevensies assured him that, as long as Aslan was resident with them, not so much as a dent in the larder would be made by any Man or Beast. Sure enough, when Caspian enquired of the Head Cook, it seemed that last night's revelry had not diminished their supplies at all, and the proportion of the castle staff who were delighted with this was equal to the proportion of those who were thoroughly disconcerted.

'We're losing people,' Caspian said to her, as they sat at the table on the dais. The others had eaten with them and then dispersed. Immediately beyond the hall doors, Lucy, resplendent in a simple gown borrowed from a kitchen-maid, was whirling about to the faun pipes, her hands in Edmund's and the pair of them spinning, spinning, until Susan was sure that they would both be sick when they stopped.

'Squire Costes is not here,' Susan observed, 'nor half the young folk we danced with.'

Caspian nodded. 'The older lords, too. They all have sudden pressing business on their estates.' Susan nodded, not needing to ask what that meant. Caspian went on, 'We're missing a good portion of the domestic staff, too. Cook tells me a few claimed to have sick relatives or other such business, but for the most part...' he trailed off, and Susan, again, understood.

'Aslan has offered them a passage out of Narnia,' she pointed out, and Caspian merely raised one eyebrow.

'Would you take such an unknown path, my Queen?'

Susan's laugh sounded more bitter in her ears than she had intended. 'Caspian, I am dragged down such unknown paths without warning.'

They did not dance again that night, but Caspian walked with her to her room. He looked as if he had something he wanted desperately to say, and Susan was silent and left him to say it, but in the end, he said nothing at all. He kissed her, instead, a soft brush of lips against lips. Susan sighed into him, and for a moment all she felt was relief. It was not her first kiss, not by far, but it was the first in this second youth: one instance in which she lagged a little less behind herself. She cupped Caspian's face (soft, beardless, but with a new-healed scar under her fingers) and pulled him closer, remembering and rediscovering the tease of another's breath against her lips, doomed and playing catch-up with the tangle of fingers in her hair and the yield of lips beneath hers.

Caspian broke away from her and stood for a moment, just an arm's length away. His breathing was ragged, Susan noted with a sense of victory, before she realised that her own breath was coming unevenly, and, had the hallway been properly lit, they would both have been equally red-faced.

'Sleep well,' Caspian said, adding, 'Susan,' before he turned and disappeared.

* * *

On the third day, King Caspian rode out from the castle of his fathers to inspect the royal domain. He went at the head of a motley sort of cavalcade, with Aslan on his right and his aunt Prunaprismia on his left. Immediately behind them rode the four Kings and Queens of Old, with Lucy on the right and Edmund on the left, and Susan and Peter between them, as their thrones had once been arranged in Cair Paravel. They rode first through the town, Susan fidgeting in the big Telmarine side-saddle and wishing that, for once, she'd followed Lucy's lead and donned trousers. The town was not particularly large: the town at Beruna had been larger, but not by much.

Instead of following the wide road from the castle to the old town gates, they turned and rode through the market district. They went slowly here, for a crowd had turned out: adults and children in even numbers, some there to cheer the new king, some to gawp at the Great Lion, some to see for themselves the creatures of legend who had come out of the woods, and a surprising number of them there to jeer and mock at their own nobility. Lady Prunaprismia was not well loved, Susan realised at once, as the crowd derided her.

'Hark,' Edmund said, nudging his horse nearer hers. Susan frowned a moment, and then her ears made sense of the jeers on either side: there were cries of 'Miraz' bitch!', which was encouraging, since it suggested that Caspian's uncle had been no better liked than his aunt. More interestingly, the townsfolk were shouting 'Archen whore!', and they could only mean Prunaprismia.

'Prunaprismia's not an Archen name,' Susan said.

Edmund shrugged. 'Perhaps she took a new name on her marriage?' Susan merely frowned, and Edmund directed his gaze back at the crowd.

At the steps of the town hall, they dismounted: Peter and Lucy went with Caspian, and a heavy detail of guards, saying they wished to talk with the stall-holders. Caspian, his eyes hopeful, urged Susan to join them - she would see the finest cloths in Narnia, the best-blown glass, and many other wonders. Susan declined, saying she was too hot to walk about, and tried not to think about how the disappointment in his eyes warmed her.  
She stood in the shade, with Edmund close beside her. Sprawled on the steps of the town hall, Aslan had Prunaprismia by his forepaw as always, and an assortment of Narnians perched about him, but the two Pevensies kept to one side.

'What don't you see here?' Edmund asked her.

'Sensible summer clothes?' Susan rolled her eyes. It was hot, her dress was warm enough for winter, and even the town women were dressed in chemises and heavy surcoats over their blouses. Besides, that was easier than the answers which bubbled to the surface: she didn't see beavers, there were no beavers in Narnia anymore. She didn't see the Lion banner above the town hall, didn't see the crush of Beasts which used to greet them at every turn. She didn't see the dwarfs selling the fine jewellery she had loved - and she had no money or barter goods anyway.

Edmund ignored her. 'Traders,' he said. 'There are no foreigners here.'

'It's a small town.'

'It's Miraz' - Caspian's - capital. Beruna was the same. Some Archenlanders, but nothing more. No Calormenes, no Galmans, no Terebinthians, not even any Telmarines.'

Susan turned to stare at him. 'These _are_ Telmarines, Ed.'

'No they're not,' he answered. 'They used to be. They don't even speak Telmarine.' Susan hadn't thought of that. She'd once spoken fluent Telmarine, and certainly Caspian's court were not speaking that language now. More worringly, she could not remember so much as a word of Telmarine herself. It had only been a year - and yet the entire language was gone, as if she had never learnt it.

'Hie, Caspian,' Edmund called, as the others turned back towards the horses. 'When was Old Telmarine last spoken in Narnia?'

Caspian shrugged. 'A few months? We use it on ceremonial occasions.'

'You'll want to be changing that, then,' Peter said. 'Here, Ed, look at the metalwork on this.' He tossed a dagger - unsheathed - to his brother, who caught it neatly around the handle.

'Show-off,' Edmund said, with a little shake of his head. 'Looks Calormene to me.'

'I bought it from the local smith.'

'With what money?' Susan asked, a little snippily. 'We're guests here, Peter.' Guests, drifters, encumbrances: nothing to give and nothing to bargain.

'Won it off the Captain of the Guard,' Peter answered her, turning to take the reins of his horse again.

'Wait -' Caspian stopped, looking from one of them to the other. 'What was that about Old Telmarine?'

'You can't expect the Narnians to sit quiet while you conduct court in the Conqueror's tongue,' Peter said, swinging into the saddle as he did.

'Oh,' said Caspian, looking lost. 'But I don't speak Old Narnian very well. Trufflehunter tried to teach me, but...' His voice trailed off, and he tugged nervously at his blond curls.

'What's wrong with the tongue we're using now?' Edmund asked. 'I'll wager more than half the Beasts speak this common tongue more easily than Old Narnian anyway.'

'Wait - Ed...' Susan put out her hand, but Edmund had already turned to mount, and gave no sign of hearing her. _Old_ Narnian? The idea turned her cold - what else had been ripped away in just a year? She opened her mouth and found no words but those she had always spoken: plain and simple English, and nothing peculiar to Narnia at all.

Caspian touched her shoulder. 'My Lady?'

Susan leant involuntarily into the touch. 'Caspian?' He smiled when she spoke his name. 'What are we speaking, if not Old Narnian or Telmarine?'

Caspian shrugged. 'Just Narnian, my Lady.' He managed a nervous smile, and Susan knew he was wondering the same thing as she: if she had spoken Old Narnian as Queen, what was she speaking now and how was it that he understood it? None of her siblings seemed disturbed at all. Was she the only one who had not noticed that her very words had changed? And yet she would have sworn that they had not.

'My lady?' Caspian said, again, and she smiled back, allowing him to help her into the saddle. His hands lingered, settling her skirts about her: a surprising attention to detail, for a young man. Susan put a hand out to him, grazed her fingers along his knuckles, and was rewarded with the shy skittering of his gaze, from her fingers to her face and back again.

* * *

The hours before a feast were Susan's solace, when she could get them. When she had good servants and seneschals, when the days were not taken up entirely with meetings and dispatches and balancing accounts: then she could afford these hours, time to bathe and dress and be alone with herself.

If you could call it alone, when you had two Telmarine maids, wide-eyed and wary, following your every move.

'I can do that myself,' Susan snapped, plucking the sponge from the hands of her timid maid. The girls both shrunk back, but did not take their eyes off her at all. It was all rather disconcerting. She'd had maids, ladies in waiting, before: there had been a dryad, at one point, and a badgeress, and later on a couple of girls, daughters of merchants who'd settled in Paravel town. Had they all stared so? She couldn't remember.

The maids towelled her dry with hesitant hands: Susan stood stock still and felt foolish, and then snatched the towel into her own hands as the maids reached her thighs, patting down and nudging her legs apart as if this were a perfectly usual undertaking. Susan turned her back to them and finished drying herself off, working the towel carefully between each of her toes, acutely aware that she was the only one embarrassed.

When she turned around, they were still staring, waiting for her to give some kind of cue. The one took the towels out of her hands, and the other began laying out her garments: big, coarse bloomers, split right through the crotch so that one did not have to undress to use the necessary (or anything else, Susan had thought, but then Telmarine gowns and petticoats were so cumbersome, you could hardly hike them up about your hips or even remove them without a small army of servants).

In the open wardrobe, she caught sight of a familiar rich purple: her own clothes had been laundered and returned to her. Slipping the grasp of the maid with the bloomers, she went to run her hands over the familiar cloth. It was a long, simple gown: it had been many years since she'd worn it - she'd long since outgrown it. Perhaps she had worn it that first midsummer? It was really too good to be traipsing about the woods in, but she supposed she hadn't stored away her simple gowns, her riding skirts and hunting gear.

It looked rather foolish, hanging there next to Caspian's elaborate tunics and cloaks, with her school uniform folded up below them all.

Ordering the maids away, she dressed herself: plain English knickers, feeling snug and somehow comforting, like home and rules she knew well. Plain stockings and suspenders, too, and no petticoat: had she had stockings in Narnia? Petticoats? If she had, no one had stored them away. She laced on the riding boots she'd worn that day, and pulled her dress on over her head. When they'd dressed on Paravel Island, only days ago, she'd thought it was cumbersome, like pulling on a tent. Now, it felt light and easy, and she went down to the feast with a smile on her face.

* * *

Gathered on the dais to open the feast, they found that more of Caspian's Telmarine subjects had vacated the court, but number of native Narnians was swelling. The hall was jammed with Men and Beasts and forest folk, all jumbled in together, and none of them looking quite comfortable with the venue or the company.

'Where are they all coming from?' Caspian asked. 'There's more here than were at the How with us.'

'Out of bolt-holes and hiding places, I expect,' Edmund answered him. 'Aslan is here. Word gets around.'

_We're here_, Susan thought, but perhaps that didn't count for anything any more.

'From the hills of Archenland,' Prunaprismia put in, coming up behind Peter, who made way for her with a showy bow.

'You _knew_,' Caspian said, not even turning to look at his aunt.

Prunaprismia shrugged, a dainty little lift of the shoulders. 'Shepherd's tales, stories to while away the hours on the high reaches,' she answered. There was a flicker of a smile on her face. 'Like you, cousin, I have seen stories come true.'

'Narnians!' Peter cried, his voice carrying over their conversation and through the hall. 'Tomorrow we ride for Beruna, and the following day - five days after the battle was won - we will bid farewell to those who do not wish to live in a free Narnia!' Shouts went up from the Narnians - shouts of joy and vengeance and victory, while the Telmarine noblemen stood back against the walls and watched. Peter held up his hand again for silence.

'Men of Telmar,' he began. 'Men of _Narnia_. You have served your kingdom well and faithfully; your families have lived and made their homes here; your ancestors have served true and noble kings.' Now the Beasts were stirring, as Peter held out his hand to Caspian. Caspian took it, let himself be ledto the centre of the dais. Susan caught a glimpse of his face - he had no better idea of what was happening than did Glenstorm, down there in the crowd.

'Many of your comrades,' Peter went on, 'will not stay here: for many of your comrades, the changes Narnia faces are too great.' Every eye in the room was on him - there must have been something magic in it, that way he had of commanding attention, and he had not lost it, not in all the ages since they'd left. 'It is a shame -' Peter's lowered voice still carried right through the room - 'that so many of those who remember Caspian IX will not stay to see his son begin a new page in Narnia's history.' Peter raised Caspian's hand high in the air, the clasped hands of the old king and the new held up for all to see. 'Those of you here tonight: those of you who are willing, and proud, and courageous enough to stay, those who love your country well enough to remain faithful in a time of change - and you Old Narnians, you Beasts and Dwarfs and forest folk, you who will put aside your fear of Men and the past which lies between you, you who will work to make Narnia stronger and bolder and more free - you will all of you write your names at the head of that page. When your children and grandchildren, and their grandchildren after them, come to read that history, the history of the new Narnia, they will remember that it was _you who made her great!_."

The assembly was silent for a moment. Susan could tell: none of them quite knew what to do. No one ever did, the first time they heard Peter give one of his speeches. A cheer was about to build, they had about thirty seconds before the whole crowd caught on - but then Caspian did something rather unexpected, and let go of Peter's hand, taking a step forward himself. The cheer did happen, but died out raggedly, the crowd now unsure as to who they were cheering for.

'Friends,' Caspian began, and then had to stop as his voice cracked. 'Friends,' he tried again, this time carrying out across the room. 'Tonight we feast, and tomorrow we ride to Beruna. We will feast again tomorrow night, in the woods, as is the Old Narnian custom. Men of Narnia: I ask that you come with us: come with us, and bid farewell to those who have served your country well. And you Old Narnians: I ask that you make them welcome, for these Men will be your countrymen henceforth.'

It was a short speech: Caspian's voice cracked without warning; he lacked all Peter's fire, and his knack for making difficult situations look like heroes' work. Yet the crowd cheered. Susan could see the uneasiness on all their faces, but they cheered anyway, and when Peter looped his arm around Caspian's shoulders, they cheered all the harder.

* * *

The feast was long and the hall cleared for dancing afterwards. Susan danced a few of the complicated Telmarine square dances: once with Peter, once with Edmund, and the final dance with a bored-looking nobleman who proclaimed himself to be Caspian's third-cousin-once-removed. At the end of the set, the nobles retired to ornament the walls, while the hall floor was taken up by a trio consisting of a dwarf with a fiddle, a faun with a long reed pipe, and a dryad with a hand-drum. With a start, Susan recognised the tunes: the Fauns and Maenads had always danced more-or-less without fixed steps, but they'd had court dances in their day, jigs and reels and polkas. The steps had changed, the tunes were not quite the same, but the rhythms were all familiar.

That gave her an idea, and as the first dance finished, she made her way across the floor. She was stopped a few feet away from the musicians by Lucy, who caught her around the waist and grinned up at her.

'Dance with me, Su?'

Susan shook her head and shrugged out of Lucy's embrace. 'The fiddle player.' Susan cocked her head in his direction. 'Do you think he still knows any waltzes?'

'I'm sure _she_ does,' Lucy answered, frowning. 'Susan...' Of course, now she remembered: you could tell a dwarf and his wife apart by the beards, which dwarf-wives didn't grow until they were past childbearing age. There was reproach in Lucy's eyes, and Susan turned away.

* * *

Caspian found her tucked into a wide window-seat. The stars were bright that night, even by Narnian standards, and Susan had pushed the shutters wide so that she could see the river gleaming and speeding away far below.

When Caspian appeared beside her, she curled her legs up closer to her body, leaving just enough space for him to slide into the window seat with her. Her folded knees were tucked into his side, and Susan allowed Caspian to shift about awkwardly for a moment before reaching out and wrapping her fingers around his wrist.

'In our day,' she said, leaning her cheek against the stone, 'windows like this were a liability.'

Caspian's Adam's apple bobbed as he spoke, and Susan found herself trying not to stare at it, or at the delicate dip of his collarbones beneath. 'Narnia is a peaceful country, now,' he said. 'My ancestors made it so.'

Edmund, Susan knew, would have used this opportunity to grill Caspian about the lack of foreign traders in Telmarine Narnia. Just now, though, Susan wanted to hold onto Caspian's Narnia, to shut herself into his small world with its rich fabrics and ornate gardens. She could stay here, where the greatest war in living memory was a stand-off between a troop of ornamental soldiers and a rag-tag collection of animals from the woods. Perhaps, if she stayed here long enough, she might forget her own wars: forget conquering the Lone Islands, forget the long Calormene war, forget that bombs were falling on London in another life.

Caspian was fretting with the billowing cuffs of his sleeves, and his gaze would not seem to settle on her face.

'Susan - ' he began, and had to stop because her name came out high and cracked. 'Your Majesty,' he went on, as if formality would atone for his wayward vocal chords. 'How long will Aslan remain with us? How long will _you_ remain with us? And your royal siblings, of course.' He was looking at her, but his back was to the torches, and Susan decided she did not _want_ to see, did not want to know if his face showed weakness or resentment. Rather than answer, she reached over and touched her fingers to his cheek. She ran her thumb under his lip, and by Ice and Stone, it should not be this hard to begin that which she had already made up her mind to do.

They both moved at once, and instead of a kiss there was an awkward fumble of noses and hands, and somehow she had to get her legs unfolded before she kneed Caspian in the side a second time. Caspian rested his hands on her shoulders, his fingers fluttering against her neck as if he did not quite dare touch her. Endearing, Susan thought, and tangled her hand in his curls, pulling him close in to her. He resisted, for a moment, and then he had his hand in her hair and his arm around her waist, and Susan arched into him, humming satisfaction against his lips.

He really wasn't very good at this, she thought, in that part of herself which stood aloof and passed judgement. _And neither am I_, she added. But it was good, it was awkward and foolish and excellent, and she was overwhelmingly glad that this was all Caspian would know of her: Susan who accidentally licked his teeth and who quivered in his arms when his fingers worked beneath the laces of her gown. She cradled the back of his head in her hand and tried everything she could still remember, all the fragmented remains of Queen Susan who broke hearts and played men like the string on her bow. Caspian was a gratifying subject and a quick mimic, giving as good as he took, until Susan's breath shuddered over both their lips and the river breeze blew shockingly cold against the flush on her cheeks.

It was important to have the upper hand. Of that much she was certain: it would not matter if she no longer knew what she was doing; it would not matter if she could not remember if it had always been like this; it would not matter if she was sure that _Queen_ Susan had brought kings trembling to release and been herself unshaken, an artist of other people's weakness - none of that would matter, so long as she had the advantage over Caspian. She first nuzzled at his neck, breathing gently and watching for his tremor in response; then she took to kissing, grazing her lips against the skin, and _oh_, but Caspian learnt fast. There was nothing for it but to lick and bite, and there, too, he followed her.

They were both breathing in gasps, uneven and raw, and it came into her head that if she could just elicit one proper moan, one real utterance, then she could say she had won. Of course Caspian had no way of knowing that - but he was such a close mimic, kissing like he danced, perfectly in time with her, that how could he not know? He had given up on the attempt to slide his fingers beneath the laces of her gown, and was using his hand instead to pull her hair back from her neck. She ought to feel safe in that, Susan recalled: to be clothed was to be in command. And yet Caspian left hot trails across her neck and she had to bury her face in his shoulder to keep from doing or saying something even more foolish. Revise your assessment of the situation of the situation, Susan: when you limit your own exposure, that which is left becomes your all.

When she could not take any more, Susan dragged Caspian's head up and kissed him, hard and bruising. With her other hand she dragged her skirt up above her knees so that she could face him properly, straddle his knees and push him back into the wall and kiss him again. Caspian's eyes went wide and for a moment she thought she had him - but in the next he had shaken off her hands and straightened up. His arm was around her waist again, and he pulled her down against him, and with the hand in her hair he held her back from his kiss, brushing his lips against hers all too gently and holding her back from seeking them out. She did the only thing she could, and drove her weight against his legs, pushing forward, demanding more contact, that last chance to drag her name from his lips.

A few more strained gasps, and then his hand on her waist was pushing her back. She tried to pull him close again, but young though he was he was by far the stronger.

'Susan,' he managed, getting his breath together. 'Stop. I'm sorry, we shouldn't... I'm sorry, I...'

'Caspian?' She tilted her head just that little bit closer, and felt his hands relax in her hair and against her waist. 'Shut up.'

* * *

When they rode out the next morning, Susan knew it would be for the last time. They left Prunaprismia in charge of her nephew's castle, and perhaps that, too, was for the last time. She embraced them all as they left, with that open, impersonal embrace which royalty know so well. But she kissed Susan, once on each cheek, and then softy on the mouth.

'I should have liked to know you better, my dear,' Prunaprismia said softly. 'I believe you were a great woman once.'

Susan swallowed, hard, against all the useless words - _once a king or queen_ \- and offered her hand to the woman who had been Queen.

'All I ask,' she said, 'is that you love this country well.'

Prunaprismia offered neither promise nor refusal. When Susan looked back, she stood in the gateway with her babe in her arms, flanked by the castle guards.

* * *

In the glade where they had first celebrated their victory, they let loose their horses (the talking Beasts gave word that the saddle horses would not wander away, but the Telmarine nobles hobbled their mounts regardless), and spread out in no particular order. Susan set her back against a tree, and kept the nearest gaggle of Telmarine nobility at the edge of her vision.

'They're here to see what sort of devilry we get up to in the woods, no doubt,' Glenstorm said, coming up beside her.

'You think so?' She shook her head and turned her face up to him. 'They're... more curious than hostile, I think. These folk, at least. The suspicious will be back in the castle, brewing rumours and panic.'

Glenstorm harrumphed. 'You are wise beyond your years, my lady.'

Susan did not bother asking which years he meant.

* * *

'You're not gettting out of it this time.' Lucy snagged Susan's arm as she tried to slip away from the group she had been talking to, which had suddenly and without warning turned into a dance. Susan resisted for a moment, and then gave in with good grace, squaring up in line with a dryad on her left and a Telmarine nobleman's daughter on her right. The noble girl had obviously taken a shine to Lucy - she'd had her maids take apart one of her gowns and try to fashion it after the simple dresses Lucy had been wearing. The end result was less than elegant, but the girl was holding up admirably, especially in the face of the fact that Lucy tonight had abandoned the kitchen-maid's gown for what looked like more of Caspian's old clothes. Susan tripped gaily through the first round of the dance, and made a special point of spinning her sister around a half-turn too far at the end, taking her place between an elderly faun and the young fop who was dancing with Lucy's admirer.

'Where were you going?' Lucy huffed, as the dance ended, Susan sweeping a deep bow and receiving a haphazard curtsey in return. Susan shrugged - she'd been going to look for Caspian, but she was hardly going to tell Lucy that. Lucy narrowed her eyes at her, and there was probably no _need_ to tell Lucy anyway.

'Did you still want a waltz?' Lucy asked. 'I asked Eanfleda: she knows the tunes, although they don't actually _waltz_ to them any more.'

'Ean- who?' Susan frowned.

'Eanfleda,' Lucy said. 'The fiddler.'

'Oh. Yes - I...' Susan cast her eye around the clearing, and found only Peter, ducking and dodging his way through the crowd towards them.

'He's over there.' Lucy nodded at an impromptu thicket which had gathered on the far side of the fire. 'With Edmund, and the Maenads.' She smirked a moment, and then added, 'Go and rescue him, then.'

Susan wasn't entirely sure that rescuing Caspian from Bacchus and his womenfolk was a good idea - there was a fair chance he wouldn't _want_ rescuing, and she didn't think she wanted to be there if he didn't. Fortunately, Caspian found her first. She had walked right past him, and he caught her around the waist just before she was out of reach. She thought he might pull her about and kiss her, right there in the middle of everyone (and likely no one would have cared), but he let her go and blushed red to the ears instead.

'Come,' she said, and took his hand. 'I promised to teach you to waltz.'

They danced carefully, Caspian's hand gentle on her hip and the other holding hers carefully between them. Susan rested her other hand on his shoulder and kept her distance: the men and Beasts had cleared a wide space around them, she and Caspian and Peter and Lucy, and they were the focus of everyone's attention.

Caspian watched her their feet for a minute or two, before he was confident that he had the basic steps under control. Susan thought about giving him more complicated directions - reverse turns or spin turns, perhaps - but decided against it. Instead, she let herself sink into the simple slow pattern of it, and tucked herself closer in to Caspian's body. He hummed awkwardly at that, and tried to ease her back with the hand on her hip.

'My lady,' he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. 'By Narnian - that is, by Telmarine standards... well. This is very forward, compared to our dances.'

Susan smiled, and stroked his palm with her fingers. 'We, ah, never worried about that much.' It was at about that point that Caspian caught sight, over her shoulder, of Peter and Lucy: Lucy tucked firmly into her brother's arms and with her head resting on his chest as they waltzed slowly around in a circle. Susan wished the firelight were brighter: Caspian's blush would have been something worth seeing.

* * *

The moon rose high over the forest, and soon enough Lucy was sleeping, curled up between Aslan's forepaws. The great Lion was not asleep: he lay wakeful and watching, and for a moment Susan thought she wanted to join them, to curl up against his warm side and sleep safelyone last time.

She followed Caspian down to the river's edge, and they lay side-by-side with the great Narnian sky above them. Caspian wove his fingers in between Susan's, and she held tightly to him.

'How well do you speak Old Narnian?' she asked, and hoped her voice did not betray the nervous flutter in her stomach.

'Badly,' Caspian answered. 'I wouldn't... perhaps you could teach me?'

Susan shook her head. _I don't know what it is_, she wanted to say, but it must be her own tongue: how could she be a stranger to it now?

'Please,' she said, and her voice wobbled a little. 'Say something for me.'

Caspian, may Aslan reward him, asked no questions. 'Trumpkin taught me some poetry,' he said. 'It's about a great hunt:

>   
> _The mayster-hunt annon, fot-hot,  
> With a gret horn blew thre mot  
> At the uncouplingge of hys houndes.  
> Withynne a while the hert yfounde ys,  
> Yhalowed, and rechased faste  
> Longe tyme; and so at the laste  
> This hert rused and staal away  
> Fro alle the houndes a privy way.  
> The houndes had overshote hym alle  
> And were on a defaute yfalle.  
> Therewyth the hunte wonder faste  
> Blew a forloyn at the last._   
> 

His accent was bad, she knew at once, and the emphasis all wrong. But for all that... meaning hovered just out of her reach, like a conversation overheard through a wall. Close enough that she _ought_ to know it, familiar as her own flesh and bone, and yet so far removed.

She bit back a sigh, and said _thank you_ and let him pull her into his arms, her hands in his hair and his leg between hers. This time, though, it was she who pulled away, who breathed 'enough,' although it wasn't, it really wasn't, it was fifteen years of not enough.

Caspian ran his hand through his rumpled hair, and apologised. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'We shouldn't,' just as he had said the day before.

'No,' she corrected. '_I_ shouldn't.' She kissed him again, close-mouthed and hard, and got up and left, before any more questions could be asked, or explanations offered.

Dawn was fuzzy on the horizon, and in the clearing where they had feasted, only Aslan was awake. He saw Susan and nodded, his great eyes like lamps in the half-light. She was gathering her courage to go up to him, to lie down between his paws if even for one last hour, when Peter materialised at her side. He looked weary, and solemn, and each of them knew at once that the other, too, had realised they were leaving.

Susan wrapped her arms around her brother, and these were the things she noticed at once: that he was taller than her, and he had grown stronger and more sturdy in the days they had spent here.

Peter rested his hand against the back of her head and promised her, 'It won't be forever. Just like last time. _Once a King or Queen_...' He said it like a vow, and she heard it like a sentence.

* * *

You know already, before Aslan speaks: 'My children, you will never return to Narnia.'

Peter looks as if he has been kicked in the gut. You realise he had not expected this, this finality, the ultimate deposition. You take his hand and wish you could repeat the Professor's promise back to him, wish you could say _always_ and mean it.

'You have learned all you can here,' Aslan continues. 'It is time to find your place in your own world.' When he breathes on Peter, you can see the change at once: your brother stands taller, squares his shoulders, and you wonder if you will ever look at him and not see the High King.

When Aslan breathes upon you, you feel the same regardless. No courage and no fear, only your own knowledge: it is over. You wrap your arms around the Lion's neck, and vow that you will always think of him. It helps to make that promise, to stand against the dread that you might not.

**Author's Note:**

> **Credit and References:**  
> * Plot and characters, as well as some direct dialogue, are drawn from C.S. Lewis' _Prince Caspian_.  
> * Some ideas, up to and including the Susan/Caspian pairing, belong to and originate from the Disney and Walden Media movie of the same name.  
> * In addition, I owe a conceptual debt to Lassiter and her fic [And Do Not Learn from/Experience](http://lassiterfics.livejournal.com/58003.html) for its influence on my characterisation of Susan, here and elsewhere.  
> * Many thanks to Trojie for considering the geological makeup of Narnia and providing details.  
> * The digression on female dwarfs is riffing off the genius of Terry Pratchett.  
> * The title, for my own obscure reasons, is taken from the Book of Judith 10.3, Douay-Rheims translation.  
> * The poetry Caspian recites is lifted from Chaucer's _Book of the Duchess_.  
> * Gardens! Associated with fertility and romance in high medieval culture. The enclosed garden is usually associated with the Virgin Mary, both as a girl and as a mother.


End file.
